Ronald Duwarkah 2025-11-05T18:36:23Z

It was one of those mornings where everything felt off—the kind where your alarm doesn’t go off, your coffee machine sputters out lukewarm sludge, and then, as if the universe had saved the worst for last, my car’s engine gave a pathetic cough and died right in my driveway. I had a major client presentation in downtown in just an hour, and the sheer panic that washed over me was visceral; my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, and sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cool morn

I never thought a simple app could bridge the gap between my current life and the cherished memories of my university days until I stumbled upon UoM Campus Explorer. As an alumnus living overseas, the physical distance had always felt like an insurmountable wall, especially during times when nostalgia hit hard. One rainy afternoon, curled up on my couch with a cup of tea, I decided to give it a try, half-expecting another gimmicky tool that would fall short. But from the moment I launched it, my

I remember the exact moment I decided to delete every dating app on my phone. It was a rainy Tuesday evening, and I was scrolling through yet another sea of gym selfies and generic "love to travel" bios, feeling like I was shopping for humans in a discount bin. My thumb ached from the mindless swiping, and my heart felt heavy with the artificiality of it all. That's when I stumbled upon an article about Fuse, an app promising "intelligent connections beyond the swipe." Skeptical but desperate, I

It was a typical chaotic evening in downtown, the sky threatening rain as I weaved through honking cars on my Vespa Primavera. My phone, buried deep in my pocket, had been buzzing incessantly for the past ten minutes—probably my boss trying to reach me about a last-minute client meeting. I could feel the vibrations like little earthquakes of anxiety, but pulling over in that gridlock was impossible. Each missed call felt like a nail in the coffin of my professional reliability, and the frustrati

The Tuscan sun beat down mercilessly as I stood outside Firenze Santa Maria Novella station, watching my regional bus dissolve into traffic. My carefully planned itinerary to San Gimignano lay in ruins - the next departure wasn't for three hours. Sweat trickled down my neck as that particular flavor of Italian panic set in: part claustrophobia, part FOMO, entirely fueled by knowing the world's best gelato awaited 60km away with no wheels to reach it. Then my thumb brushed against my phone's crac

There I was, stranded in a mountain cabin during the Euro 2024 final, miles from civilization, with only spotty signal bars mocking my desperation. My phone battery dwindled, and the thought of missing Italy versus France felt like a physical ache—a hollow pit in my stomach that twisted with every passing minute. I'd planned this getaway to escape city chaos, but now, surrounded by silent pines and howling winds, I craved the roar of the crowd, the electric buzz of a live match. Earlier that wee

The steering wheel felt like cold leather under my white-knuckled grip as rain smeared the windshield into a gray watercolor. Sixteen minutes without moving an inch on I-95 – dashboard clock screaming 8:16 AM – and the only sound was NPR dissecting municipal bond markets. My phone buzzed violently against the cup holder. Sarah’s name flashed, and her voice crackled through Bluetooth: "Dude, download the GNI thing before you morph into road rage meme material."

Rain lashed against the minivan windshield as I frantically swiped through three different messaging apps, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Practice cancellation notices were buried beneath memes and snack sign-ups - typical Tuesday chaos for our youth hockey team manager. My phone buzzed violently against the cupholder, vibrating with the collective panic of 15 parents demanding answers I didn't have. That's when Coach Mark's message pierced through the digital noise: BHC Overbos just depl

Rain lashed against my windshield like angry pebbles as brake lights bled red into the Pennsylvania dusk. Forty minutes crawling on I-76, trapped between tractor trailers vibrating with thunderous groans. My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, classical piano streaming from some satellite station feeling alien and absurd – like serving champagne at a tire fire. That’s when I remembered Sharon from accounting muttering about "that local app" while fixing the espresso machine. With one hesita

Rain lashed against my office window like a thousand tiny fists as I stared at the blinking cursor on yet another overdue report. My thumb moved on autopilot across the glowing screen - left, left, left - dismissing faces blurred into a meaningless parade of forced smiles and bathroom selfies. That hollow ache in my chest wasn't hunger; it was the residue of three years scrolling through human connection like it was a clearance rack. Then Maya slid her phone across the conference table during Tu

Rain lashed against my kitchen window like handfuls of gravel. 2:47 AM. My knuckles were white around the phone, listening to the voicemail for the fifth time. "Martha? It's Jake... van's acting real funny near the river bend... lights just died..." Static swallowed the rest. The sourdough for tomorrow's farmers market sat proofing in industrial tubs, worthless if Jake didn't make it back with the custom wedding cake tiers. My entire business balance could evaporate before sunrise. Again. That f

Last Thursday night, the pressure cooker of my workweek exploded just as my boss casually mentioned he'd be joining our team dinner. "Bring something authentic," he'd said, his smile stretching thin over unspoken expectations. My stomach dropped – authentic meant diving into the culinary labyrinth of Jeddah's specialty stores after back-to-back client calls. I pictured the fluorescent glare of crowded aisles, the sticky floors of spice shops, the inevitable hour lost in traffic hell. My thumb in

That first brutal Ullensaker winter had me questioning every life choice. I remember staring at frost-encrusted windows, watching snowplows struggle past my rental cottage while neighbors moved with unsettling purpose. They knew things. Secrets whispered over woodpiles about road closures, school cancellations, burst pipes - while I remained stranded in ignorance, missing vital garbage collection days and nearly skidding into ditches. The isolation bit deeper than the -15°C air.

I remember clutching my camera bag like a life raft as fat raindrops exploded on the pavement around me. Just ten minutes earlier, the sky had been a lazy blue canvas – perfect for capturing golden-hour cityscapes. My weather app showed a harmless 20% chance of scattered showers. Lies. By the time I sprinted to a café awning, my vintage Leica was making gurgling sounds, and my last dry shirt clung to me like a wet paper towel. That moment of betrayal wasn't just about ruined gear; it felt like t

Rain lashed against the library windows as I frantically pawed through my bag, fingertips numb from the Tyrolean chill seeping through my thin jacket. Third-floor sociology section – or was it fourth? My crumpled map disintegrated into pulp as panic coiled in my throat. Professor Bauer's rare guest lecture started in eight minutes across this maze of brutalist concrete, and I'd already embarrassed myself twice this week stumbling into chemistry labs by mistake. That's when my phone buzzed – not

My breath crystallized in the predawn darkness as frozen gravel crunched beneath worn soles. That February morning felt like betrayal - legs heavy as cement, lungs burning with each gasp of -10°C air. I'd dragged myself to this abandoned railway trail for the 37th consecutive day, tracking pathetic progress in a notebook that now mocked me with plateaued times. The ritual had become self-flagellation: run until the numbness overpowered the disappointment. When snow began stinging my cheeks, I al

Rain hammered against my windshield like bullets as I fishtailed down Highway 27, the Mississippi floodwaters swallowing road signs whole. My knuckles were bone-white on the steering wheel, radio static mocking my attempts to reach the disaster command center. "Mayday, this is Unit 7 - does anyone copy?" Silence. That terrifying vacuum where help should be. Then I remembered - three days earlier, some tech volunteer had installed a bright orange icon on my phone: "Zello, for when shit hits the f

Rain lashed against the van window like thrown gravel, each drop echoing the panic tightening my chest. Outside, pitch-black countryside swallowed the road—no streetlights, no landmarks, just a dispatcher’s frantic voice crackling through my dying phone: "Mrs. Henderson’s oxygen generator is failing, and you’re her last hope tonight." My fingers trembled as I fumbled with crumpled job sheets soaked from the storm, addresses bleeding into illegible ink smudges. Thirty minutes wasted circling mudd

Rain lashed against the coffee shop window as I stared at my fourth stale croissant that week, property printouts bleeding ink across the table. Another lead evaporated when we arrived at the Saguenay cottage only to find "SOLD" slapped across the For Sale sign like a slap to the face. My knuckles whitened around the lukewarm mug - months of weekend drives down gravel roads, misleading listings, and realtor double-talk had left me raw. That afternoon, I hurled my folder into the backseat with a

Rain lashed against the barn roof like nails on tin, drowning out the weak cries of the lamb struggling in my arms. My fingers, numb from cold and exhaustion, fumbled through the medicine cabinet – empty syringes, a crusted tube of antiseptic, and that godforsaken notepad where last week’s scribbles about penicillin doses had bled into a coffee stain. Another stillbirth. Another preventable loss if I’d had the damn oxytocin when Bessie started labor at 3 AM. I kicked the cabinet door shut, the m